


Stark Truths

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Idrelle's Holiday Fanfic Gifts 2017 [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Hawke, POV Anders (Dragon Age), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: Ian Hawke has made a habit of dropping by Anders' clinic, unwanted and uninvited. But on a stormy night, when Ian arrives in desperate need, Anders has no choice but to help her.This story takes place within the continuity ofLadyDracarys'sNemesis of Neglect.





	Stark Truths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyDracarys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDracarys/gifts).



> This is a gift for the lovely [@ladydracarysao3](http://ladydracarysao3.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much for all the support and for being an amazing friend. I took Anders and Ian out for a spin and I hope I did them justice!
> 
> Ian Hawke belongs to LadyDracarys. You can read her story here in [Nemesis of Neglect](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12326682/chapters/28027053). It's a horror story set in a Victorian AU of Kirkwall (circa 1888) with a Jack the Ripper-inspired twist.

Anders isn’t surprised when Ian Hawke bursts through his clinic door at half past midnight. 

He isn’t even surprised to find her covered in blood. 

He is, however, surprised to find her in a dress. 

She stands in the threshold, holding the door open with one hand, arm pressed against the worn wood, fingers splayed. A violent rainstorm thunders behind her, streaks of lightning illuminating her in silhouette. She is drenched to the bone, water pooling at her feet, droplets shimmering on her cold arms and bosom alongside the flecks of blood. The rain has slicked her short dark hair back into a tangled web at the base of her neck. Her gown is heavy, the rich fabric waterlogged with rain. The weight of the full skirt bogs her down, clinging to her legs and ankles in an unnatural way. It gives her such an otherworldly profile that for a moment she looks like a creature that has climbed its way out of the deepest pits below the Darktown sewers. 

He has never seen her in a dress before. 

Lightning flashes. Thunder cracks. In the dim light of the clinic’s lanterns, Ian’s shadow stretches across the floor, seeping into the woodwork. She takes a step forward, grasping the door for support. Her long, sweeping fringe falls across her face and all he can make out is a single, penetrating blue eye.   

“Anders,” she snarls. _“Get this out of me.”_  

Anders stares at her, baffled as to her meaning. Then he looks down and finally sees the steel rod impaled through her side. 

 _Fuck._  

“What did you do this time?” he demands, rushing to her side and throwing an arm around her shoulders. Ian’s hand slips, palm sliding painfully across the door, smearing blood as she collapses unwillingly into him. She must have dragged herself all the way here from Hightown. 

“What do you mean _this time?”_ she spits. 

There is blood on her lips. 

“I know the kind of games you nobles play,” Anders grunts as he drags her away from the door and across the clinic floor. “Meddling in affairs that are none of your concern, looking for any rush, any high this cesspool can grant you, regardless of the cost to those who actually live in it—” 

She nearly chokes, her laughter rasping and guttural. “What the fuck are you ranting about now? I don’t—” 

His eyes narrow. “What happens if you die here, tonight? The city guard won’t see a healer who did his best to save his patient’s life, they’ll see a _conjurer_ who killed a noblewoman.” 

She seizes his arm, her fingernails digging into skin. “That won’t happen. I came to you so I _won’t_ die.” 

“Lucky me.” 

“Cut the sanctimonious bullshit, Anders,” Ian hisses. “You’re not the fucking Chantry.” 

“You came to _my_ clinic,” he retorts. “Sanctimonious bullshit is part of the deal.” 

“Then you finally admit it,” Ian says, a thin smile on her face. “You’re no better than the rest of us, scratching and scraping for something better in this shithole of a city.” 

She’s pulling against him, trying to walk on her own. He can feel her sliding—in this state, she can’t support her own weight anymore. In response, he tightens his grip and hauls her towards the nearest cot. 

“Let go.” 

“No.” 

“I can walk to a fucking bed on my own! I’m not helpless—” 

Anders lets out an irate breath. If it was a lesser wound, he would consider dropping her to prove a point. “Ian,” he says pointedly, “you have a foot long pole rammed through your abdomen. By definition, _you are helpless.”_

She laughs, a sharp, cackling sound, her head lolling against his shoulder. “I’m not… I’m _not…”_  

The delirium is setting in. He’s surprised she’s made it this far, but then again, she is Ian Hawke. She’s practically a force of nature. 

They make it to the cot. Anders helps her sit, one hand placed on her shoulder to keep her steady. He is thankful that the clinic is empty; he doesn’t want any witnesses to this debacle. Ian attracts unwanted attention everywhere she goes. He has enough unwanted attention as it is. 

Anders drops to a knee and examines the wound. He feels her shudder, her breath and heart racing as his hands touch her torso, lightly skimming the beaded, embroidered fabric of her bodice. Despite being drenched and blood-stained, it looks new. The stiff satin is a deep red—a colour reminiscent of wine Ian drinks far too much of—and overlaid with black lace. It’s a formal evening garment, designed for a grand ball. 

Even ruined as it is, it’s probably the most expensive thing in the room. 

She must have looked stunning in it. 

Stunning—but nothing like herself. 

Unwanted, a story begins to form in Anders’ head. While the reasonable explanation is that Ian’s mother insisted she dress appropriately for one gala or another, he has a feeling there is something more to this. Ian is deeply embedded in Kirkwall’s criminal underground, and both the Coterie and the Carta have the need to run in certain circles of high society. Ian is more than capable of using her aristocratic roots to worm her way into a dubious event—the very kind of dubious event that puts its guests in situations where they are at risk of being impaled.    

Anders shakes his head and glances at Ian. Her eyes are closed, head rolling forward. 

“Ian…”

She mumbles something he cannot hear. Anders grasps her by the chin and lifts her head. He can’t let her pass out. 

“Tell me something, Ian,” he says.

“Mm?” 

“Why am I not surprised that when they finally manage to squeeze you into a dress, you find a way to ruin it?” 

Her eyelids flutter. “Are… are you trying to make me angry?” 

When she opens her eyes, her gaze finds his. 

“No.” Anders returns to her wound, mind racing as he ponders how he’s going to safely remove the rod. “If I wanted to do that, I’d say that even in this state, it makes you look beautiful.” 

Ian snorts. “That…” She stumbles on her words. She wets her lower lip and tries again. “That morbid streak does you no credit.” 

“I’m not here to be popular. That’s Varric’s job.” 

Her hand grazes his shoulder. “Then what are you here for?” 

Anders pauses and looks away. Even if he can remove the rod, her insides would be shredded by the impact. By all rights, she should be dead by now. He could rush her to surgery, but there is no guarantee he can heal her by ordinary means. 

But ordinary means are not his only resource. 

 _No._ No. _You don’t need to. Those are forbidden magics that could end you both if anyone sees. Why risk yourself for her?_  

He hates this argument. He hates that it’s one he has with himself every time she finds her way to his clinic, bleeding from a street skirmish. He patches her up and sends her on her way, until she claws her way back to him with a fresh wound for him to heal. As the damage she takes becomes worse with each visit, she almost seems to be goading him into use magic. 

It’s as if she’s saying, _show yourself, live as you are, not as you pretend to be._  

Anders clears his throat. “I need to remove your clothes.” 

Ian looks at him blankly _._ “…what?” 

Anders stands. “I need to remove your clothes,” he repeats as he crosses the clinic, gathering his implements. He sets them on a tray, then plunges his hands into cold, soapy water, washing them furiously as he speaks. “This isn’t time for propriety, Ian—if that rod is to be removed, I need to see what I’m doing.” 

“Oh… I see!” she says brightly. There’s a strange, dreamy expression on her face now. “This is why you need to be clear from the start. My mind went someplace _completely_ different.” She snorts with laughter. 

Anders rolls his eyes and dries his hands. “You’re delirious,” he says, crossing to a nearby cabinet. He glances through the stash of potions and remedies, before spotting a small vial filled with a brilliant blue liquid. He pulls it free and hands it to Ian. “Drink this,” he commands. 

She takes the vial with shaking hands and holds it up. “Is it good?” 

Anders sighs. “Yes, Ian,” he says. “It’s good. You need it.” 

“I do?” 

He spreads his hands. “It will give you the strangest dreams.” 

She chortles and peers up at him. She almost looks coy, if it were not for the blood staining her mouth. “Fucking _try_ me. I see the weirdest shit in my dreams.” 

“Ian,” Anders says quietly. “Drink it. Please.” 

A giggle escapes from her lips and she downs the contents. Her eyes close and Anders catches her as she falls backwards. He lays her down on the cot, resting her head against the shabby, moth-eaten pillow. The tincture he gave her will keep her sedated. He didn’t lie—she will have strange dreams—but he’d rather she have the dreams then wake up while he is in the midst of stitching her back together. And it will dull her pain when she wakes.   

 _If_ she wakes. 

 _Don’t think like that._ _Don’t you_ dare _think like that._  

She has to survive. He has to save her. He’s loathe to admit it, but Ian Hawke is the only thing that’s given him purpose in the last six month of his measly existence in this barren, soulless pit of a city. 

And if he loses that, he loses himself. 

Anders takes a breath. Blue magic flares between his fingers, growing until it encircles his hand. 

He begins his work.   

* * *

 

A streak of sunlight creeps in through the gaps of the closed shutters, pale and frosty in the early morning hour. Anders sits at Ian’s side in a dilapidated chair. It creaks with every movement. He’s surprised that it hasn’t woken her up—the tincture’s effects must be wearing off soon. 

The dress lies unceremoniously in a torn, bloody heap on the floor. He didn’t know what else to do with it after cutting the bodice free. Wrapped in its heavy fabric is the metal rod, another item he doesn’t know what to do with. 

He’s exhausted. He’s cold and clammy from his sweat and his hands are covered with Ian’s blood and a mixture of herbs from the poultice he placed on her side. He knows he should clean himself up and rest, but he cannot. Not yet. Not until she wakes. 

She’s alive. He knows that much—he can see her chest moving slightly with each breath, hear the soft whistle of air as it passes through her open lips. There’s a peacefulness on her face that seems at odds with what he knows of her. He could never imagine her in a moment of such serenity, yet here she is. 

He hopes it’s not merely an after-effect of the drug. For her sake. 

“Your chair is squeaky. Did you know that?” 

Anders glances at her. Beneath the tousled dark hair, he sees the glint of a piercing blue eye. 

“I’m aware,” he replies. “How do you feel?” 

“Like I was run over by a train.” 

She groans and tries to push herself up, but Anders grabs her by the shoulder. 

“Don’t,” he warns. “I just removed a metal rod from your abdomen and repaired the significant damage it did to your small intestines and right kidney. You should stay in bed, at least for today.” 

“Unfortunately, I’m a terrible patient,” Ian retorts, brushing his hand aside and slowly sitting up so her back rests against the wall. “And bedridden was never really my style.” She glances down and frowns, tugging at the coarse fabric of the shirt she wears. “This isn’t mine.” 

“No,” Ander says. “It’s mine.” 

Ian raises an eyebrow. 

“I wasn’t about to put you back in that dress,” he continues. 

Ian snorts. 

“Nor was I going to leave you—” He stops, folding his arms, face flushed. “Look. Don’t make this awkward. You are my patient. You are in my care. I healed you, I cleaned you up, I dressed you—” 

“I’m not the one making this awkward,” Ian says. “You’re doing that all on your own.” 

Anders looks away, biting his tongue. _Infuriating woman._  

Ian pulls up the shirt and stares at her abdomen. She pokes at poultice bandaged to her side, then casts a sly glance at Anders. “You used magic.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You used magic. Didn’t you.” She shifts on her cot, leaning over so she can grab him by the arm. “I seriously doubt I would be awake and mobile if you _didn’t_ use magic, so—” 

He pulls away. “I would hardly call you mobile.” 

She throws back the thin blanket and gingerly swings her legs around to the edge of the bed. “Clearly,” she says. “I disagree—ouch!” 

She winces and her hand goes to her side. She doubles over in pain, head bowed. 

Anders leaps to his feet and touches her shoulder. “Ian—” 

“I’m _fine,”_ she hisses. “I’m fine. Go away.” 

Anders returns to his chair and leans back, legs crossed, one foot resting up on his knee. He watches as Ian pants and groans, fighting the pain. 

The chair creaks. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Anders says. 

Ian brushes her fringe out of her eyes. “No.” 

“I saved your life,” he points out. “If I’m going to be patching up your hide every other Tuesday, you owe it to me to tell me why.” 

Ian grunts and leans back, hands clasped to her wound. “Sometimes it’s better not knowing,” she says. “Sometimes it’s better to be the fool. That’s what keeps you safe.” 

“I’m a mage, Ian,” Anders says. “There’s nothing safe about me.” 

Ian laughs darkly. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she rasps.

“Says the woman who shows up at my house in the middle of the night, during a thunderstorm, dressed in a blood-soaked gown and impaled with a rod,” Anders retorts. 

Ian nods. “Touché.” 

Anders drags his chair closer to her cot. “Look,” he says, slipping forward until he is sitting on the edge of the seat. “Now that I’m caught up in this shit, I need to know what to expect.” 

Ian’s knee bumps his. “I hate to break it to you,” she says, “but _everyone_ is caught up in a little shit in Kirkwall. It’s part of living _in_ Kirkwall.” 

“My life was very different before I met you,” Anders says flatly. 

“Is that so?” Ian turns, leaning forward. She grasp his shoulder for support. “I don’t like to think of myself as a very important person,” she murmurs in his ear, her voice low and dangerous. “My mother has more than enough ego for our entire family.” 

“You chose me, Ian,” Anders presses, ignoring her comment.  

“I did?” She touches the side of his face, fingers pressing into his jawline. “How so?” 

“There’s a hundred physicians in Kirkwall, but you walked through _my_ door.” His eyes find hers. There’s something entrancing about her gaze. She pulls you in and then you’re trapped. She’s like a spider, luring her prey in her web. “Why?” 

“You’re good at what you do,” Ian murmurs. “Talented. Discreet.” She shakes back her loose hair and turns her head to the side as she stares at him, unblinkingly. “There’s enough rumours about me already. I don’t need half of Hightown gossiping about how the disgraced, trouser-wearing daughter of Leandra Hawke skipped her societal debut for the fifth year in a row to dally with thugs and cretins in Darktown.” 

Her hand slips to the back of his neck, fingers clutching at his hair. 

“I hate to break it to you,” Anders says. “But I _am_ a cretin in Darktown.” 

“I know.” 

Her mouth is on his and all he can feel is the heat of her breath, the urgency in her kiss. She is fury and passion entwined, her teeth nipping his lower lip in her hurry. There is so much about her that is raw and unbridled. He can feel her desperation as she pulls him to her. Her fingernails dig through the worn fabric of his shirt, scraping along his back. 

She’s sparked something in him. He runs a hand through her hair, gripping the back of her neck as he kisses her in return. Her alabaster skin is ablaze with heat, and she groans against his lips, a sound more surprisingly arousing than he would have expected. He’s harboured feelings for her for much longer than he would like to admit. The intense longing and desire for her, so long overlooked and ignored, hits him with such undeniable force he’s almost winded. 

“You’re wounded,” Anders says against her lips. 

Ian shrugs. “Don’t care.” 

“I care.” 

“For once in your life, stop thinking like a physician, Anders,” she hisses. “In fact, don’t think at all.” 

“This is a terrible idea—” 

“I know,” she says and nips his lower lip. “I’m full of them.” 

She pulls him towards her forcefully and lets out a staggering gasp. She shudders with pain and Anders breaks from her grasp, kneeling down to inspect her wound. 

There’s blood on the bandage. 

He eyes Ian. She’s averted her gaze and, even though her teeth are clenched tight, strangely enough she is red-faced from embarrassment. 

“I told you this was a terrible idea,” Anders says. “Are you all right?” 

“Yes,” Ian snaps. 

“I need to rebandage the wound,” he adds, getting to his feet. “Lie down and try to relax, all right?” 

Ian shifts back on the cot and lies down. “Fine.” Her eyes narrow as she watches him cross the clinic and gather fresh bandages. “But this conversation… is to be continued.” 

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Anders tries not to give into it as he returns to her cot and sits at her side. “Perhaps,” he says, as he re-dresses her wound. “When you’ve recovered. Then we’ll see.” 

“Is that a promise?” 

Anders pauses. 

 _This is a terrible idea…_  

“Yes,” he says. 

“Good,” Ian replies. She’s silent for a moment as she leans back and watches him work. She folds her arms over her breasts and looks away as he replaces the poultice. “After all,” she says, “you’re one hell of a kisser. I’d really hate to wake up and have this be one of those strange, drug-induced dreams you promised I’d have.” 

Anders looks at her, a faint smile on his face. 

“I wouldn’t want that either.”


End file.
